


Somnolence

by cruentum



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Community: writerinadrawer, WriterInADrawer 4.02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:42:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruentum/pseuds/cruentum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is part of a short-duration writing contest.  Please do not comment on this story, positively or negatively, until this notice is removed.  If you are interested in this contest please visit http://community.livejournal.com/writerinadrawer.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Somnolence

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of a short-duration writing contest. Please do not comment on this story, positively or negatively, until this notice is removed. If you are interested in this contest please visit http://community.livejournal.com/writerinadrawer.

Midnight establishes itself with the wolf whistle of a boy who looks hopeful as Cardiff is giving you a balmy summer night for a change. You smile, thumb out your comm, take out your keys and let yourself into your house. You leave the door open to the summer air and toe off your shoes, then walk through to the back. You don't turn on the lights.

He's sleeping at your kitchen table like most nights, and like most nights the bottle of Pinot Grigio is half empty but the glasses he's set out for himself and for you are dry.

You knock on the door frame and he jerks up, eyes hopeful for that one moment before awareness rolls over him. You both pause in the darkness after that, him with slumped shoulders and dead eyes, you being you, unsurprised and a little sad.

"I miss her," he tells you a minute or ten later and looks at a spot above the door, eyes rimmed with darkness from the night and more. "I can't stop thinking about her and I miss her."

He hasn't shaved in days and you haven't slept in thirty hours, the oddest pair you make, but he keeps coming to your house because you _don't have anything, either_, as he says.

He takes another swig from the bottle of wine. "I only loved her. That can't be wrong," he tells you. "Love can't be wrong, Tosh."

Jack will call and shout about suspensions and no-contact rules, but that's an hour away. For now, you sit across the table from him and drink some of his wine. "I suppose," you say, but then, what do you know, you _don't have anything, either_, only strangers you see from afar.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of a short-duration writing contest. Please do not comment on this story, positively or negatively, until this notice is removed. If you are interested in this contest please visit http://community.livejournal.com/writerinadrawer.


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